The French Connection
by Souris
Summary: Sydney gets some unexpected help on a mission


The French Connection  
By: Souris  
Rated: PG-13 (maybe edging up to a soft R for a few impure thoughts)  
Disclaimer: They aren't mine. Never will be. Entertainment purposes. J.J. Abrams. Yadda yadda.  
Summary: Sydney gets some unexpected help on a mission.  
Author's Note: OK, this is just shameless Action!Vaughn wish-fulfillment. And no angst! Well, maybe a *soupcon*. I thought about doing the pertinent dialogue in French with translations at the end, but I figured that would be confusing. So just pretend that the characters are talking in French where appropriate. Although I did throw in a few phrases here and there to set the ambience.  
  
  
SD-6 briefing room, Credit Dauphine  
Los Angeles  
  
"Your next mission is to retrieve this." Sloane pressed a button on his computer, and a black-and-white picture popped up on all of their monitors. Sydney squinted at it. It appeared to be some sort of coin or medallion, marked with numbers and letters and some figures which she didn't recognize.  
  
"What is it?" Dixon asked.  
  
"A medallion on which Milo Rambaldi is said to have inscribed a formula for turning lead into gold. We know what the front looks like from this drawing in a 16th-century manuscript, but the formula is incomplete without the back. The medallion was thought lost or destroyed -- or apocryphal. But now it has turned up in the private collection of a Frenchman named Henri Sanguinet."  
  
"Sanguinet -- hasn't he been accused of illegally influencing international trading?" Sydney asked.  
  
"Only by rumor. He's far too smart to allow any evidence to surface. He's a powerful man, and he wants to become more powerful. Being able to alter matter would certainly give him that. We want that medallion in our possession, not his." Sloane walked around the table until he was standing next to Sydney. Far too close, she thought, and forced herself not to flinch away. "On Friday, he is holding a party at his home outside Rouen to unveil a previously unknown Monet painting that he has recently acquired. The two of you will attend. During the unveiling, Sydney will sneak into the library and retrieve the medallion from his safe. Marshall."  
  
"What??" Marshall started at Sloane's unexpected attention.  
  
"The medallion," Sloane gritted.  
  
"Oh, yeah." Marshall began digging in his pockets. He deposited a handful of coins onto the table. "Here -- no, that's a dollar. See, it has Sacagawea on it, have you seen them? People don't really use them, which is a shame because they're more durable than paper and -- oh, sorry, Mr. Sloane." He pulled out a half-gone roll of Certs. "Breath mint?" he offered Sydney. "I mean, not that I think you *need* one. You have nice breath. I mean -- no? OK."  
  
Sydney glanced at the table, knowing that she dare not meet Dixon's eye for fear of bursting into laughter.  
  
"Ah, here it is!" Marshall cried triumphantly, pulling it out of his shirt pocket. "You'll replace the real medallion with this one. He'll discover it as soon as he looks at it closely again, but it should buy some time."  
  
Sydney nodded and took the medallion from him. It was golden and roughly the size of a half-dollar. "What kind of safe does Sanguinet have?"  
  
"It's an enhanced single-keypad safe with an eight-digit passcode. Marshall!"  
  
This time Marshall was ready. "Yes, sir." He picked up the slim cell phone in front of him. "Looks like a cell phone, right?" He touched it briefly to his ear, then lowered it. "But it's really a digital codebreaker. State of the art. Just put it against the keypad like this, press star-411 -- information, get it? -- and the passcode you need to enter will show up in the message area."  
  
  
Warehouse, City of Industry  
  
Sydney sat on one of the crates, her legs crossed and her back against the chain-link fence, looking up at Vaughn. It was not an unpleasant view.  
  
"Sanguinet's safe has a dual-keypad lock -- two people have to enter the code simultaneously," he said.  
  
She started. "What? Sloane said it was a single keypad --"  
  
"Apparently, he doesn't know that Sanguinet has upgraded his system. He only had the new one installed last week -- in preparation for the party, I presume. The CIA just got the intell the day before yesterday."  
  
"So I'll have to tell Sloane that I couldn't complete the mission."  
  
"No, we want you to complete it. Only really for us. The CIA doesn't believe that such a formula exists, but just in case, we'd rather that SD-6 not have it." He handed her a file. "This is Agent Phillipe Gilbert. He'll be at the party, too. Make contact at the bar half an hour before the unveiling. He will be your other pair of hands to open the safe. He'll take the medallion, and you'll replace it with the forgery that Sloane gave you. Gilbert will give you another forgery that we're having made to take back to SD-6. Tell Sloane you were able to reach both keypads with a pen or something."  
  
She nodded and opened the file. "He's cute."  
  
"If you like that sort of thing," Vaughn said somewhat huffily.  
  
"What? Attractive Frenchmen?" She couldn't completely suppress a smile at Vaughn's reaction. He looked *so* put-out. She glanced up at him, and he finally seemed to realize that she was teasing him.  
  
He gave a rueful smile in response. "He's a good agent, but he, well, he tends to be rather *enthusiastic* about his usual playboy cover."  
  
"Ah. One of *those*."  
  
"So don't, you know, belt him one or anything. At least until *after* you retrieve the medallion."  
  
"I think I can handle myself with any agent you send me."  
  
"I'm sure you can." He smiled. "Bon chance, Sydney."  
  
  
Estate of Henri Sanguinet  
Outskirts of Rouen, France  
  
Sydney let her gaze wander casually around the ballroom, looking for Agent Gilbert. She couldn't find him. That was disquieting, because it was less than an hour until the unveiling. Was he in disguise, or -- suddenly, she found her eyes meeting those of Michael Vaughn. After a second or two of absolute shock, she snapped her gaze to her wine glass. What the hell was he doing here? Clearly, something must have happened to Gilbert. Was Vaughn taking his place? Was the plan still on?   
  
She forced herself to turn her back to him and wander about the room, feigning interest in the artwork on the walls, smiling pleasantly at guests, engaging in idle chitchat. But still her mind whirled. She was well-trained to react smoothly to any unforeseen changes in plans, but his presence had thrown her oddly off-kilter.  
  
Try as she might, she couldn't avoid stealing a glance or two in his direction. He was surrounded by a small cluster of attractive women. A stunning blonde in an inappropriately low-cut red dress had practically attached herself to him. Was she another agent? Sydney wondered. No, she decided, she was trying far too hard to monopolize his attention. Sydney could hear her peals of laughter all the way across the room. Surely Vaughn wouldn't find such a shameless display of flirting *attractive*. It was really quite sickening.   
  
Although, if truth be told, she couldn't fault the woman for her taste. He did look damn good in a tuxedo. Even if she hadn't known him, he would have drawn her eyes. There were plenty of good-looking men at the party, but he stood out. Speaking as an impartial observer, of course.  
  
"You should ask him to dance."  
  
She started at Dixon's voice. God, she'd not even noticed him approaching! "What are you talking about?"  
  
"I've seen you looking at that popular young Frenchman across the room. And I assure you, he's noticed you, too."  
  
"Dixon, don't be silly, I can't --"  
  
"Sure you can. We have over half an hour until the unveiling. Sydney, you deserve a little fun. Go on. It's just one dance."  
  
Sydney started to protest, but then she realized that it would be a perfect chance to find out what was going on without arousing Dixon's suspicions. Now that he had already noticed Vaughn, this was the easiest way. They'd just have to be sure that Dixon never, ever saw Vaughn again.  
  
"Are you sure he noticed me?" she asked, exasperated that Vaughn had been caught looking at her (conveniently forgetting that she had been guilty of the same crime). He must not have been in the field for a while. "It seems like he has enough to notice right in front of him."  
  
"Oh, yeah, he noticed you. How could he not in that dress?" Dixon teased.   
  
Sydney smiled and set her wine glass down on a side table. "If he turns me down, Dixon, you're buying me lunch for a week."  
  
"He won't."  
  
Sydney felt strangely nervous as she walked across the room, almost as if she were worried that he *would* say "No." The room seemed somehow larger than it had before, but at least she was afforded the best, longest look at him that she had enjoyed all evening. There was no denying it: he was an amazingly attractive man. It was almost criminal for him to look as good as he did in a tuxedo. She couldn't stop herself from letting her eyes roam over the slim length of his body. The tuxedo had to have been made for him; it fit him perfectly. There was something a little different about his hair. It was more tousled than usual, making her fingers itch to tousle it even further. He also had a noticeable five o'clock shadow, giving him a rakish, sexy edge quite different from his usual conservative sleekness.  
  
There was absolutely no reason for her to feel this nervous.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Vaughn noticed Sydney walking toward him with a mixture of consternation and confusion. What the hell was she doing about to make contact with him so openly? Obviously she had a reason, but it seemed an unnecessary risk. Dixon would surely notice, and God knows who else. He would be shocked if K-Directorate didn't have an agent here tonight.  
  
But he couldn't ignore the exhilaration that he felt at seeing her approach him, either. She looked ... amazing. She made a stunning redhead, and her short dress clung to her body like a second skin. He tried to damp down the desire that immediately surged through him. Suddenly, the danger they faced from Sanguinet somehow seemed secondary to the danger of Sydney Bristow walking toward him in a tight black dress.  
  
He had been extremely annoyed when Gilbert called him from the airport as they loaded him into the ambulance. It had been a freak accident, of course, no one's fault, but he had been furious at how it might affect Sydney's safety. He had had little chance to think throughout his frantic preparations for leaving and picking up the medallion from Gilbert at the hospital. But as he had settled into his seat on the plane, the annoyance had changed to anticipation. He was going to get to see Sydney in action, and not only that, he was going to get to help her, to work side-by-side with her. He hadn't quite realized how desperately he had wanted that until the opportunity was presented to him.  
  
He prayed that he wouldn't do anything to mess things up. Apart from a few missions, he had never really been a field agent. So far, though, things had gone fine. He had tried to assume Gilbert's cover as a playboy race-car driver as best he could. He certainly didn't have Gilbert's enthusiasm for the part, but he must be doing well enough, if the women around him were any indication. It was flattering, of course, and a great benefit for his cover, but he really would have preferred they go away. He had danced with a couple of them -- the blonde in the red dress had been practically insistent -- but they were distracting, and the only woman there whom he wanted to spend time with was the one woman he couldn't.  
  
But now she was walking toward him, and adrenaline surged through his body.  
  
* * * * *  
  
"Monsieur, I was wondering if you would like to dance?" She couldn't help notice the rather murderous glare that the blonde shot her, and she felt inordinately pleased.  
  
Vaughn raised one eyebrow, and she was quite sure that she had never seen anything sexier in her life. He rather blatantly looked her up and down. "Of course, mademoiselle. I am at your service. For dancing...." He let the sentence trail off suggestively. Without breaking eye contact with Sydney, he handed his wine glass to the blonde, who looked as if she had just been presented with a dead fish. Oh, *perfect,* Sydney thought, feeling a bubble of laughter well up in her throat. She couldn't help shooting the woman a rather smug glance as Vaughn took her hand and led her to the dance floor.  
  
The band was playing a soft, romantic tune that she didn't recognize. They settled into each other's arms and began to move in time to the music. "What are you doing?" they hissed at the same moment.  
  
Their eyes met, and he nodded for her to go ahead.  
  
"What happened to Gilbert?" she asked.  
  
"He broke his ankle at the airport." He rolled his eyes at her quizzical look. "Don't ask. I think it involved a flight attendant and a baggage carousel. Anyway, there wasn't enough time to brief anybody else and pick up the medallion from him, so here I am, hands at your disposal."  
  
"Think you can handle it?" she teased.  
  
"I practiced entering my PIN number at the ATM at the airport," he retorted.  
  
She smiled and glanced at the group of women who were still clustered where they had left them, looking variously glum and perturbed. "You seem to have slipped into Gilbert's cover successfully."  
  
He grimaced, but she detected a faint redness rising on his cheeks. "Hey, don't act so surprised. But if I have to listen to that blonde laugh in my ear much longer, I'm going to go deaf."  
  
I knew he wouldn't find her attractive, she thought with satisfaction.  
  
"My turn. Why did you ask me to dance instead of waiting for me to go to the bar to make contact?" he asked. "Dixon had to have seen you."  
  
"Dixon noticed you staring at me and suggested that I ask you to dance. Not very stealthy, Agent Vaughn."  
  
"I was *not* staring. I may have *looked* once or twice, but I was not *staring*," he protested quietly. Oh, God, *had* he been staring? Vaughn wondered, abashed. He had tried very hard not to. Of course, he had caught *her* looking at *him* a time or two. "Anyway, what gave him the idea that you would *want* to dance with me?"  
  
"I don't know."   
  
Was that a bit of a blush he spied on her cheeks? She wasn't meeting his eyes, and he couldn't help smiling a little. "Busted, Agent Bristow?" he whispered.  
  
"I was very surprised to see you," she said.   
  
"J'espere que ce n'etait pas une surprise entierement desagreable."  
  
"Naturellement pas. By the way, your French is very good," she told him. In fact, she had to admit, it was better than her own. The words came from his lips with a natural, easy cadence that intrigued her.  
  
"My mother's French."  
  
She raised her eyebrows. In spite of how close she felt to Vaughn, there was so much she didn't know about him. When they got back to Los Angeles, she vowed, she would get to know him better, find out things like that.  
  
For the moment, though, there seemed nothing else to say. They relaxed into the dance, their bodies moving in unison to the music. Sydney closed her eyes and concentrated on the sensations that were filling her mind. His grip was strong but gentle, she noted -- just right. He smelled of cologne and soap and a scent that she had learned was distinctly him. He made her feel ... comfortable. Most of all, she felt the electric warmth where his hand rested against the small of her back, bare where her dress scooped down to just below her waist. She could almost imagine how it would feel if he moved his hand over her back, his palm igniting her skin.  
  
Thank you, Dixon, for suggesting this, she thought with a sigh.  
  
The song ended, far too soon, and Sydney felt a pang of disappointment. She looked up and was captivated by his eyes; they seemed almost purely green at that instant, with only a few flecks of hazel. For a second, she thought that Vaughn wasn't going to release her, and she could find nothing wrong with that possibility. Then, with a bit of a flourish, he brought her hand to his lips. "Merci pour la danse, Sydney," he whispered. She felt a shiver run through her at the touch of his lips to her hand. His other hand caressed her spine for the barest moment before he withdrew it, and she shivered again. "See you in half an hour," he said, and then he was walking away from her, back to the cluster of women. They didn't bother her anymore.  
  
* * * * *  
  
"Mesdames et messieurs!" Henri Sanguinet's voice boomed over the assemblage from the raised platform where the band had been playing. Two men carefully lifted an easel draped with black velvet up beside him. "As you all know, one of my great pleasures is discovering new and exciting artists. You see their work all around you. But I also take great pleasure in the classic artists. Soon after I started my business, one of my first acquisitions was a Gaugin that I found...."  
  
Thank God that Sanguinet had a reputation for long-windednessness and vanity, Vaughn thought. He was likely to go down the list of all of his notable acquisitions before getting to the new Monet. Vaughn set down the wine glasses that he had been bringing to his admirers and, making sure that all eyes were on Sanguinet, he slipped into the hallway.  
  
He felt his heart beating faster as he approached the library, and recognized the mixture of fear and anticipation that called every nerve in his body to attention. Did Sydney still feel this rush of excitement before each mission, or was she perfectly calm and focused, so used to it all that her emotions barely rippled?  
  
She was waiting for him in the library, and he felt a certain pride and amazement at her skill; he hadn't even noticed her leave the ballroom. He opened his mouth to tell her that, but she shook her head and tapped her ear. He nodded, realizing that Dixon was listening, and simply smiled at her instead. She smiled back and nodded toward the safe. She had already pulled it out from its recessed hiding place behind a tall, almost floor-to-ceiling painting of the Eiffel Tower done in wild oranges, reds and blue. Obviously not one of the classic artists.  
  
The large safe rolled out from the wall along a track, but much of its depth remained hidden in the wall. On either side, near the floor and just clear of the wall, were two keypads. It would've been impossible for one person to enter the code simultaneously; their arms would've needed to be close to 10 feet long.  
  
Sydney withdrew Marshall's codebreaking device from her purse and, crouching down, positioned it over the keypad on the right. She pushed *411 and, after about three seconds, an eight-digit number flashed onto the message area.  
  
Vaughn crouched down on the other side. She nodded and began mouthing the numbers, punctuating each one with a snap of her head to mark their unison as they keyed in the code. "Three. Six. Eight. Seven. Three. Seven. Six. Eight."  
  
The door of the safe popped open, and they exchanged brilliant, satisfied smiles. He has the most amazing dimples, she thought dimly before jerking her mind back to the business at hand. She slipped the "cell phone" back into her purse as Vaughn pushed the safe door all the way open. He reached in and pulled out a thickly folded sheaf of papers. For a moment, she thought that he was going to open then, but then he seemed to get ahold of his curiosity and laid them aside. He next pulled out a square, metal box about the size of a deck of cards. This he opened.  
  
It was the medallion. He lifted it from its resting place on a burgundy-velvet pillow and held it in the air for a moment. Despite its age, it was bright and untarnished. He slipped it into his inside jacket-pocket. Sydney reached into her purse and withdrew Marshall's forgery, placing it on the velvet pillow. She closed the box's lid and Vaughn put it back into the safe, exactly where it had been. He replaced the papers on top of the box and shut the safe. Sydney pushed it back into the wall, and Vaughn swung the Eiffel Tower picture back in place over it.  
  
They smiled at each other again. "Nice fingers," Sydney mouthed. Vaughn gave a silent chuckle, then mouthed "Thanks." He reached into his pants pocket and withdrew the CIA's forgery. "One last thing."  
  
Before he could hand it to her, Dixon's voice suddenly boomed in her ear. "Sydney! Hurry up! You're about to have a visitor!" Quickly, she flicked her transmitter off. "Someone's coming," she hissed to Vaughn. Immediately, they heard the sound of footsteps echoing in the hallway. Their eyes locked for a split second, and then they were moving in unison toward the couch, the same agency-suggested scenario in their minds. He pulled her down, she pushed him down, and their lips met as they tumbled onto the cushions in an ungainly sprawl.  
  
Most of her mind was definitely focused on the approaching footsteps, using them to gauge the person's nearness, speed and heft. Clearly a man, and he was in no obvious hurry -- which meant they hadn't tripped a silent alarm and his visit was for some other purpose. They were going to get caught, but she was confident that they'd be able to talk their way out of it. The safe was securely fastened, the painting was in place and nothing was amiss in the room, apart from them. She relaxed a bit, and that's when the rest of her senses began clamoring for attention.  
  
She was lying on a sofa kissing Michael Vaughn -- and quite thoroughly as it turned out. For a moment -- just a moment -- the sensations washed over her, blocking out the footsteps and the danger and everything else. Her fingers twined into his hair, shamelessly pulling him even closer, every nerve in her body tensing again. Slow down, she thought, and she wasn't sure if she was talking to herself or the man in the hall.  
  
She felt his hand at her breast, and she only had time to process the barest beginnings of shock and thrill before she felt the cold metal of the medallion, and she realized what he was doing.  
  
"Here, now, this is off-limits to guests!" The man's voice boomed in the library. "You're going to have to leave!"  
  
They broke apart and clambered to their feet. Sydney adjusted the top of her dress and pushed the medallion far out of sight as she did so. She didn't have to feign her confusion and embarrassment; she could feel the color rising on her cheeks. The man was glaring at them, but he didn't appear to be any more angry than the situation warranted and he didn't have a gun pointed at them. In fact, she almost thought she caught a glimpse of humor in his eyes.  
  
"Of course. My apologies." Vaughn's breathing was noticeably ragged, but under the circumstances, it thankfully wasn't suspicious.  
  
"Excuse me. I have to get back ... my date...." Sydney grabbed her purse from the desk and brushed past them, not meeting either of their eyes, glad that it would look more convincing if she didn't. She hurried down the hall, quickly brushing her hair into place, and slipped back into the party.  
  
Vaughn took a deep breath and forced a smile onto his face, when all he really wanted to do was run after her and ... what? "We were just looking for someplace a little more ... private. You understand." He winked in what he hoped was a suave manner. "And I would really appreciate it if you didn't mention this to the blonde in the red dress. She wouldn't be happy." He pulled a 100-franc note from his pocket and slipped it into the man's jacket pocket. He could tell that the man was more amused than angry now. Giving him a friendly nod, he forced himself to walk casually by him.  
  
"Monsieur?" Vaughn halted, sudden apprehension stiffening his spine. He turned, preparing himself to throw a punch or be face-to-face with a gun. "You might want to...." The man motioned to his lips.  
  
"What? Oh." Vaughn relaxed. "Thanks," he replied, pulling out his handkerchief and wiping the lipstick off of his lips. Sydney's lipstick. Ruthlessly, he pushed that thought aside. "I'd better throw this one away before I get home." He smiled at the man and left, thankful that his legs were steady enough to carry him normally.   
  
He wasn't sure if the unsteadiness he felt was from the near-miss of being caught -- or kissing Sydney Bristow.  
  
* * * * *  
  
"How was the painting?" Sydney asked, sidling up next to Dixon. She thought her voice sounded normal, which was more than she could say for how she was feeling.  
  
He smiled and handed her a glass of champagne. "Lovely. Did you get the medallion?"  
  
"Safe and sound." She took a rather large sip.  
  
"Did you have trouble with the guard? You seem a little ... flushed."  
  
"Just had to convince him that I was upset about my boyfriend dancing with another woman. He was no trouble."  
  
"Good idea. Shall we go before they discover the switch?"  
  
She nodded and took another drink before setting the glass down, only halfway listening to him. As she waited by the door for him to retrieve their coats from the cloakroom, she couldn't help looking back for Vaughn. He entered the ballroom from the hallway, adjusting his jacket, and immediately their eyes met. She could almost feel his lips on hers again, soft and sweet and responsive, and warmth suffused her.  
  
"Here you go, Syd." She smiled her thanks up at Dixon and let him help her into her coat, turning her back to Vaughn.  
  
She thought about the kiss all the way back to Los Angeles.  
  
  
Note: If anyone is familiar with the author Patricia Veryan, you may have spotted my tiny nod to one of her *fabulous* books (and series)! I think she would like Syd and Vaughn. Although she would *definitely* give us a lot more Action!Vaughn. 


End file.
